Wax on Wax #10: Catching Up
Hey! We're back. My college buddies and I have re-started our weekly record club and we're catching up with some awesome new music. This week doesn't really have a theme, it's more some of my favorite things that have been suggested through our weekly chats, as well as some stuff I've been into since the summer. I don't think this blog will be weekly on the dot anymore, it might be closer to bi-weekly, but that will allow me to be a bit more consistent with it without getting burned out. Anyway, enjoy!
Have you ever been so absorbed by a dream that you woke up believing you were still asleep? Dreams can be incredibly peaceful and inviting while being punctuated by certain things out of place or something weird and wonderful only your subconscious could drum up. I firmly believe dreams are your intuition working in real-time, and it's imperative to listen to what they may have to say. Music can be a major driver of dreams, whether from a writing perspective or as a vehicle to take you somewhere new while you sleep. I've had dreams that were major harbingers of change in my life, and just as often I've had dreams that were (seemingly) stupid and pointless. The most helpful and telling dream I've ever had came a few years ago, right before I moved to Nashville. At the time, I was working long, hard night shifts at Capitol Studios in Hollywood. I'd routinely return home at 5 or 6 in the morning and was in an almost constant state of dread and misery due to my schedule, and the stress of such intense and intimidating circumstances at work. I was pursuing my goals to the fullest extent of my abilities, but it took a huge toll. I'd almost completely lost myself in my stubborn pursuit of success in the music industry, and in that pursuit, I nearly lost all the passion I had to begin with.
I had a dream one night that I was in my childhood home where I grew up. My family was gone, it was dark, and the house was in an extreme state of decay and disrepair. I could distinctly see portions of my house lit only by moonlight, and I was stumbling around in surreal disbelief and panic. I discovered a tiger lurking around the house, stalking me - hunting me. The tiger looked me in the eye, gnashed its teeth, and as I began to run I had the sensation of being suspended in place. The floor began to give out from under me, and I began to fall into a deep, dark abyss. With the house collapsing all around me, no "bottom" to speak of, and a tiger close behind, it was clear to me all of these things were signposts for my real life. A few nights later, I was admitted to the hospital for a panic attack, and I do not doubt that my subconscious was trying to tell me something during that dream a few nights prior. Within a few weeks, I quit my job, and my girlfriend and I moved to Nashville and I will always see that dream as a major catalyst for why. Dreams are powerful and no one taps into these dream unrealities better than the king of modern surrealist art - David Lynch.
Floating Into The Night is the 1989 collaboration between filmmaker David Lynch, trusted composer Angelo Badalamenti, and the duo's dreamy muse Julee Cruise. Lynch writes all lyrics, handles production duties, and provides the overall creative direction of the album. Badalamenti deftly blankets the entire album in a wash of soft synths and Rhodes piano - expertly executing Lynch's ethereal vision of a 50's doo-wop diner turned opium den. Cruise, with her soft croon, is the perfect vehicle for Lynch's haunting lyrics and she cuts through the music like a scream in the night. It's a beautiful collaboration of three very distinct voices that manage to collapse into one. Dream imagery is present throughout the lyrics, but what is more impressive is the way Badalamenti manages to perfectly encapsulate the effervescent weightlessness of being in a dream punctuated by occasional bouts of unsettling, uncomfortable dissonance. The music here is almost timeless, in the sense that if you didn't know when this was released, I don't know if you'd be able to place it. It's unlike a lot of contemporary 80s music, while at the same time featuring many familiar synth-y elements of the time. There is a distinct 50s pop influence that adds to the surreal feeling throughout the entire production. I even can draw comparisons to torch songs and jazz from the 40s. It's the first proper dream-pop album in my book and serves as a wonderful, almost shoe-gaze template for a multitude of artists since its release.
If you're like me and you're a fan of David Lynch's work in film and television, you'll recognize a lot of the music on this album. Some of the songs were used for Blue Velvet, but most notably, the song "Falling" was used as the classic theme to Twin Peaks. Since being trapped at home for quarantine the last few months, I've rewatched many of Lynch's films as well as the entirety of Twin Peaks. Lynch's forays into music were not on my radar until discovering Twin Peaks a few years ago; I found that he manages to be as unique and inspired in the recording studio as he is behind a film camera on set. Listening to Floating Into The Night you get the same uneasy sensation you get from watching one of his films. This album was written and directed by Lynch, in a sense, while being executed by his "actors" Badalamenti and Cruise. His ability to convey the ethereal and unreal is unmatched in the visual medium of film, and I think you'd be hard-pressed not to make a similar argument about his music. His art is so alluring, and it's no surprise that after steeping myself in his film and television work for so long that I'm doing anything I can to discover new avenues of his to get lost in.
Floating Into The Night would be as at home in your headspace during an 8-hour midnight road trip as it would be curled up in bed with headphones and a joint. It's music to drift away and lose yourself to. Dreams are a potent creative well to draw from, and it is always surprising to me that more musicians don't draw from it directly as Lynch does. Famously, some have. McCartney claims to have come up with the entire melody for "Yesterday" during a dream. He woke up in the middle of the night and wrote the entire song "from memory" in a sense. Keith Richards dreamt the riff for "Satisfaction," rolled over in bed, recorded it on a tape recorder, and fell back asleep. Hendrix wrote "Purple Haze" in a similar way. Take it from these guys - write your damn dreams down, musicians. There is good stuff in there waiting to come out every night; you merely have to tap into it. I believe utilizing the full potential of dreams is a muscle you have to exercise, like anything else. Whether you use them for creativity, escapism, or developing your intuition, you have to pay attention to them. No one does this better than David Lynch, with no better example on record than Floating Into The Night.
In my 30 years on this Earth, I, like many music fans, have scratched my Beatles itch. I scratched it so hard I broke the skin, and when that healed I started picking the scabs. I've even hit bone a few times. I love The Beatles. The Beatles were an incredibly influential group, but their influence, at its best, is more felt than heard. You rarely get pop songwriting from the era that wasn't a copy of what The Beatles were doing but was more of a contemporary to what they were doing. Anytime I come across anything that gives me that John, Paul, George & Ringo vibe - I get very excited. Harry Nilsson's Aerial Ballet is the long-lost answer to Rubber Soul you never knew you wanted. Nilsson's 70's work is ironically much more removed from the 60s Beatles sound despite how much time he was spending drinking with actual Beatles. Aerial Ballet sounds like it could be Harry Nilsson's audition to be in The Beatles. It's Nillson doing his best impression of John, covering Paul songs.
I don't want to come across like I think Aerial Ballet is derivative or lesser than because of the stylistic similarities I hear with The Fab Four. Nilsson was still discovering his unique voice on this album, and as with many artists, the best way to do that is through imitation. Like Dylan did with Guthrie, Nilsson, in the same way, is exploring his songwriting through the template of something that already works. The fascinating thing about Nilsson and The Beatles is that it's hard to tell where one influence began and the other ended. Lennon was famously a huge fan of Nilsson's, and the two songwriters shared demos of their respective albums during this period. Was Nilsson's songwriting an influence of Lennon, or was it the other way around? Was it both at the same time? Influence is not a one-way street, and what we think of when we use the term "Beatles-esque" could easily actually mean something is "Nilsson-esque." Eye, meet Beholder.
This album contains several of Nilsson's biggest hits, including "One" and "Everybody's Talkin'," both demonstrating his delicate but powerful voice. Nilsson famously ruptured his vocal cords while recording a ridiculous "screaming match" with John Lennon for Nilsson's 1974 album Pussy Cats. Knowing that while listening to this album makes it all the more painful to know that such a wonderful singing voice was about to be ruined forever in just a few short years. It should not go without mentioning George Tipton, playing the role of pseudo-George Martin on these recordings. The orchestral arrangements that Tipton provides showcase the most telling Beatles influences on the album. These arrangement decisions are very deliberate.
The album is happy, positive, and (I can say from experience) a great way to start a morning. It's a sunny day that has greeted a so far gloomy 2021, and listening to this record was a very welcome experience. Nilsson is probably known more for who he influenced and was influenced by than any one particular album he did. Of everything I've heard, Aerial Ballet is the album that showcases his unique and peculiar genius in the best light. His later albums are fantastic in their own right, but none are as consistent and optimistic as Aerial Ballet. Give this one a listen with a morning cup of coffee.
When you're on top of the world, but you feel so low... The drink in the bottom of that glass is endless, and there is a hole in your chest that no one could ever reach. You've given up, but there is something beautiful to be found in the melancholy. Maybe all this is mixed in with a sense of wanderlust, and the idea of just getting lost and disappearing from the face of the Earth has never seemed more appealing. Every word that comes out of your mouth could lead to tears. I think we've all been there a time or two - I know I have. Music that can approach what these feelings are like isn't created with a ton of forethought or intention. These kinds of emotions tend to bubble over once you stop watching the pot boil. They just come out, and we're lucky when we can capture them on record. After devouring L'Amour by Canadian (?) mystery man Lewis, the depth of his lonely songwriting only scratches the surface of what turns out to be an incredibly fascinating album.
For a very long time, Lewis was the D.B. Cooper of 80s singer-songwriters (huh?). By complete happenstance, a copy of L'Amour was discovered in a flea market in Edmonton, Canada, in the early 2010s. News of this find spread to Light in the Attic Records in Seattle, and quickly plans were made for an official re-release of this seemingly lost 1983 classic. Immediately it became apparent that this artist, known only as Lewis, was nowhere to be found. It wasn't clear until they tracked down some of his distant friends and family if he were even still alive. All that could be discovered about the background of L'Amour was that a tall, handsome man showed up in a white Mercedes convertible, with a matching white suit to Los Angeles recording studio Music Lab around 1983. Joining him was a beautiful model, apparently, his girlfriend, with whom he lived in an apartment filled with pure white furniture. This man was the epitome of every 80s Outrun inspired fantasy there is. After completing the recording sessions, Lewis asked local photographer Edward Colver to snap some shots for the album cover - which was paid for with a check that promptly bounced. And that was that. No one could find him for decades afterward. Like D.B Cooper a decade earlier, he vanished without a trace. The inner sleeve tribute to Christie Brinkley didn't exactly help to clear things up either.
The music on L'Amour is a far cry from what Lewis's Euro-Playboy, yuppie image might suggest. While there is plenty of 80s synth on this album, Lewis is less Kavinsky and more of a wind-swept Leonard Cohen. Every song contains just a few recurring elements: delicate piano or acoustic guitar (presumably played by Lewis himself), synthesizers as accompaniment, and Lewis's incredibly delicate mumble, barely able to hold its head about the music's water. If it weren't for the breaks between songs, you'd be forgiven if you thought this entire album was a giant, sad, musical run-on sentence. Most often, that would be a critique of an album, but in the case of L'Amour it all contributes to the overwhelming sense of sadness and mystery that shrouds the entire production. Lewis's careful whisper over the waves of synth draws a clear parallel to the lyrical and musical sentiment of Lewis wanting to cross-dissolve out of life itself.
L'Amour isn't a sad album in the same vein as Sea Change or Blood On The Tracks. Remarkably it is even more personal, even more intimate than most albums of this ilk. Lewis is the guy at the end of the bar, mumbling into his drink after hours. If you were to speak, he would tell you half-truths, whole lies, and probably leave you with the check and a box of tissues. That Lewis decided to drop off the face of the Earth for decades after this album is a testament to the fact that his heartache present in these songs cut deep. You notice I said "for decades," and that is because Lewis - has been found. He's made several follow up albums after this devastating 1983 classic, but none can hold a candle to it. Luckily his reemergence has done nothing to dispel the mystery of the man or this music; it has only added a new set of enigmas that I'm sure we'll go over another day. Is it midnight? Is your VHS copy of Miami Vice playing on mute? Still hungover from that coke bender? Who's Ferrari is that parked on my lawn? Is that Christie Brinkley on my couch? It might be time to put on L'Amour.
Luckily there have been only a few times in my life where I felt truly out of control of my own body, whether that be from various substances, car accidents, or particular situations. Few feelings can match the adrenaline rush of being hurled through the air in a car or the absolute madness of being too far gone after a night of partying. Your mind is scrambled eggs, and your body is holding on for dear life, but the moment you find yourself in is relentless and unforgiving. Recklessness is oddly attractive to some people, and for better or worse, I've fallen into that camp at different times in my life. Without getting too specific, I'll say from experience that it is best to find other avenues to express your appetite for destruction. With the help of Suicide you can now enjoy self-destruction right in your own home without any harm coming to yourself or others!
I'm being cheeky, of course, but to say that 1977's Suicide by the band of the same name is anything less than a car driving 100 MPH into a wall would be underselling the mood of this album. It's a constant barrage of rudimentary drum machines, synths, and screeching vocals that make your head spin. The album's centerpiece, "Frankie Teardrop," is a 10-minute nightmare about a man working a grueling factory job who murders his family and himself - and then wakes up in hell. There are seldom any guitars or anything that would resemble a respite from the intensity of synths and pounding drum machines. This album needs proper context to be fully appreciated. Otherwise, you won't be able to keep from turning your head and looking away before the body hits the ground.
Suicide was a mainstay of early CBGB, Max's, and other NYC punk joints that fostered many great bands that would almost sound "pop" in comparison. Suicide was about as well received at the time as you would expect - two middle-aged men screaming and screeching on stage didn't exactly endear itself to a wide audience. Famously while opening for Elvis Costello and The Clash in Belgium, Suicide was booed off stage before a riot broke out. The band rushed out of the arena in secret. Even punks hated this band, which by the circular logic of punk-rock means, Suicide was the most punk rock band ever. If punk rock brought rock n' roll to it's most minimal and animalistic roots - then Suicide reduced punk rock down even further to its most basic elements. But they did it with keyboards and a drum machine.
I don't know where we are without this album. Do we get bands like The Kills, Nirvana, or even Daft Punk without Suicide? Do we get Nine Inch Nails or Radiohead? I honestly don't know if we do. Their legacy and influence, at this point, is immense. The band was lucky to count Bruce Springsteen and Ric Ocasek as early, unlikely champions, and the floodgates of support have been wide open ever since. It is an unyielding listen, but I've found the more spins I give this record - the more I love it. Its simplicity is a mirage, and once you dig into these tracks, it is clear there is a lot more under the hood than meets the eye. Suicide is an album that is decades ahead of its time. Its legacy and reputation are infamous, even with its recent reevaluation as a lost punk classic. Don't lie; you want to slow down and take a look at this car wreck - don't you?
Check in next time, we’ll be covering something new! I can’t promise these blogs at a weekly clip anymore, but I think that will allow me to be more consistent in output anyway.
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